Seeking the Seeker
by morrigan
Summary: Hermione is still trying to recover from Harry's death six years ago, when she meets his killer on a train...
1. Default Chapter Title

_Seventh year at Hogwarts. Summer has come early. Harry and Hermione wander the grounds hand in hand, laughing, talking, feeding the giant squid— it's not keen on breadcrumbs so Harry has raided Snape's stores for a supply of dried frogs._

_Hermione is the happiest she can ever remember being. Their N.E.W.T.s are approaching but she doesn't care much—she's not even the top student anymore, that honour goes to Draco Malfoy who is forever in the library with a strained expression on his face, nose buried in his books._

_Only one thing can spoil this summer for Hermione—the shadow of Lord Voldemort is looming on the horizon, and everyone knows he's ready to strike again…_

# Six years later

** **

Hermione loved long train journeys; they were her favourite time to read. She especially loved this one, up to Scotland; it reminded her of her schooldays. Sometimes she missed Hogwarts so hard it hurt.

It had been difficult, to leave the wizarding world. It was the only place she'd ever really felt at home in: a place where she'd finally realised that she was accepted, that she had nothing to prove and nothing to struggle for. She could be herself: she could make mistakes and fail, and nothing terrible happened. Seven years it had taken her to learn that lesson: one nightmarish, surreal moment to unlearn it.

Sometimes when you make a mistake something terrible _does_ happen.

Sometimes you make a mistake and the world comes to an end.

For Harry it had.

Harry had killed Voldemort. Harry had saved the world.

And—and _she_ had killed Harry.

_No you didn't. Stop being so melodramatic and self-pitying_, scolded the bossy voice in her head whom Hermione thought of as Everybody's Mother. _Anyone can make a mistake—stop wallowing!It wasyears ago!_

But I want to wallow, thought Hermione. Everyone had been so nice, no-one had blamed her, if just one person had been as angry with her as she'd been with herself, maybe she wouldn't have had to run away…

She put her book down and stared out the window, ready once again to replay those final, fatal moments of Harry's life, when the enemy she'd thought accounted for had broken free to kill him, once again to indulge in an orgy of self-recrimination and guilt…

The door of the carriage opened. Oh good, maybe the chocolate trolley. You needed chocolate to deal with memories like this properly.

But it was just a fellow-passenger, a thin man with heavy bags and a thick overcoat. He dumped the bags at the end of the carriage and walked along the rows of seats. Although the carriage was nearly empty he sat down facing Hermione. 

He was pale, he had jet-black hair and glasses. He looked like— she closed her eyes, awaiting the usual jolt of pain from her everything-reminds-me-of-Harry moods.

But the pain didn't come. Instead she felt—alert. Interested. There was something about this man—was she finally getting over Harry, after all these years?

_About time too_, interjected Everybody's Mother_. Look at this man as himself, not as a person-who-looks-like-Harry. Who knows, you might even take a fancy to him…_

She opened her eyes and looked at the man—and realised. He was indeed the person she'd been waiting for all these years. He was watching her from behind his glasses with cold grey eyes.

She ducked hastily out of his gaze, fumbling around in her overlarge handbag where it lay on the floor. She kept her handbag-sized, compactwand disguised in the triangular box of a Toblerone bar, so people wouldn't wonder why she carried a large stick of rowan wood in her bag at all times. She grabbed it triumphantly and brandished it at the man. Revenge, now. Revenge, and perhaps peace of mind…

"_Petrificus totalicus supinus_, Malfoy!" she said, waving the Toblerone box at him. The grey eyes widened in startlement as the Sitting Body Bind took effect. 

Or…what was wrong? He was reaching into his overcoat pocket, he was laughing. He shouldn't be able to do either. She shook the box frantically; something silver wrapped and heavy fell into her lap.

It was a real Toblerone. Hermione couldn't think of any other occasion when unexpected chocolate had come as such an unpleasant surprise. The wand must be still in her bag. And in the meantime Malfoy, with a tiny twitch of his wand through his overcoat, and a gentle mutter of the same curse she'd tried to use earlier, had frozen her to her seat.

_I told you to clean out that handbag a _month _ago_, said Everybody's Mother_. And I warned you about eating too much chocolate…_

Malfoy was still laughing. "Chocolate? Don't mind if I do, thank you!" he said. He took the Toblerone out of her lap, broke off a tiangle and munched it.

"Mmm, the honey and nougat flavour's my favourite," he said, taking another triangle. Hermione could only watch. Her mind was in a whirl. There was some way to break out of the Bind, but she had hardly done any magic in years, her skills had gone very rusty. She couldn't remember what to do... Was Malfoy going to kill her? Or was he just planning to eat all her chocolate slowly, bit by bit, in front of her helpless eyes, and then leave her in the Bind?

He took another triangle and chewed it, naking little appreciative sucking noises that made Hermione want to kill him, even more than she already did. He caught her eye and grinned. 

"I bet you're wondring what I'm going to do with you," he said quietly, so that the Muggles sitting at the opposite window wouldn't overhear. 

"So am I, to tell you the truth," he went on. "Contrary to what you probably think, I don't actually enjoy killing people. Especially not someone who's just tried to attack me with a chocolate bar… not only are you too pathetic to kill but I actually love this stuff." He ate another piece.

Hermione would probably have ground her teeth in fury, but she couldn't move a muscle. All these years carrying her wand around with her, waiting for revenge, and as soon as she got the chance she… she cringed back from the memory. The embarrassment of that moment was going to follow her around for the rest of her life. Looking on the bright side of course, that probably wouldn't be very long.

She looked at Malfoy. He's more than half-finished the bar, the pig! What was he planning?

"No, I'm definitely not going to kill you," said Malfoy looking thoughtful. "In fact, I might go so far as to say it's a good thing I ran into you—you might be able to help me."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond angrily, except she didn't. Goddamn Body Bind. Goddamn Malfoy. She tried to funnel her fury out through her eyes, willing her stare to strike him dead like a Basilisk's.

It didn't of course, instead he seemed to find her expression amusing. "Shall I fill in your side of the converstion for you?" Putting on a shrewish, petulant squeak he said loudly "Help you? Why should I help you? You're an evil Dark Wizard and you killed Harry!"

The elderly Muggle couple opposite turned round to stare at him. 

"Oops," said Malfoy looking sheepish. He lowered his voice again. "Well I'll answer your question—I didn't kill Harry. I don't think he's dead."

Hermione's eyes widened. Of course Harry was dead—had Malfoy gone insane?

Malfoy did the squeaky thing again. "Of course he's dead, we all saw the smoking little heap of ash on the floor!"

Hermione squeezed her eyes tight shut in pain. 

"Or something less graphic than that, sorry," said Malfoy sounding insincere. "But I really don't think he's dead. He's gone—lost, somehow. I keep dreaming about him, he keeps haunting me. And you. I bet he's got you too. You haven't been able to forget him either have you? You're doing some pathetic badly paid Muggle job, you've abandoned everyone you ever knew when you were with him, you're substituting chocolate for love…"

Hermione rolled her eyes towards the empty silver Toblerone wrapper on his lap.

"Touché," said Malfoy following her gaze. "You see, I need to get him back too—no," he corrected himself hastily, "not as a er, substitute for chocolate. But he's haunting me, he won't leave me alone. He's put some kind of curse on me, nothing's ever going to go right till I get him back from wherever he is. Plus I'm a fugitive living among Muggles—" he broke off with a grimace.

Hermione tried to imagine Malfoy living among Muggles, and would grinned if she'd been able to.

Malfoy had recovered himself.

"And I want to take off this stupid disguise"— he fingered his glasses. "So—you'll help me, won't you? You want Harry back. Blink once for yes and twice for no," he finished with a grin.

Hermione hesitated. Malfoy was clearly mad. But—but—

_He is alive_, said a small voice in her head. _I always knew it._

_Nothing but wishful thinking_, said Everybody's Mother. _That way madness lies. Play along with the lunatic, though, it's safer._

Malfoy was staring at her as if trying to read her thoughts.

"The other reason you should help me is of course that I'll kill you if you don't." The Muggles turned to stare at him again.

"It's all right," he said cheerfully to them. "We're drama students. Rehearsing."

The couple broke into brays of idiotic laughter. Malfoy joined in. He pointed at Hermione. "She's going to play the corpse," he said. 

"She's very good," said the Muggle woman after a critical inspection.

Malfoy laughed again and turned back to Hermione.

"Well?" he said.

Hermione blinked. Once.

# # #

Draco heaved a sigh of relief. Bloody Potter. He knew it was potter's doing, somehow, that he'd ended up on the same train as Granger. Just a mad impulse to go to Scotland, there wasn't any reason for it. Wasn't Potter ever going to leave him alone?

_Look, I'm sorry I killed you_, he told the invisible presence for the thousandth time. _Now sod off!_

And again it came back to him, not words, not images, just an idea: _You didn't kill Harry Potter. He isn't dead._

Just that. No bloody treasure map or instruction sheet. No List of Things To Do To Rescue Potter. Just an obsession, that was running his life. Perhaps Granger would know what to do. He picked her handbag off the floor, and rifled through it. Old tissues. Small change that had spilled from her wallet. Several lipsticks, two of them without a lid. A packet of Chocolate Buttons, a tacky paperback he wouldn't have thought Hermione would be seen dead reading. There was a Filofax, but there were also many random scraps of paper with telephone numbers. Receipts, old train tickets, a leaky biro. Her wallet—he took the credit cards out before he put it back in the bag. If he had to work with this woman he wanted to establish from the beginning that he was the one in control here. And the wand, concealed in a battered triangular box. Compact and thick, made of rowanwood. He put it in the lining of his coat along with his own, and took the Body Bind off her. He didn't let go of the wand.

Hermione took a deep breath. She looked angry. Draco decided to go on the offensive.

"Your bag's a mess," he told her. "Bet your life is, too. You're verging on chubby, you know—I didn't even recognise you."

Hermione shrugged. "None of your business. You had no right to go through my things like that."

"I won the right," said Draco. "I put you under a Body-Bind—you couldn't get out of it." 

Hermione winced. Draco had escaped from a far more complex spell than the Body-Bind to attack Harry. He supposed it was cruel to remind her. But he'd been cruel all his life and he wasn't about to stop now.

"Malfoy, just because you beat me in a duel—"

"and subsequently ate your wand—" interrupted Draco with a snigger.

"doesn't mean that you've suddenly got the right to treat me like a child and order me around."

"I had no _intention_ of treating you like a child," said Draco with a leer. Hermione shrank back from him with a look of what could only be called revulsion.

Fair enough, he supposed, he had killed (or not-killed) the love-of-her-life after all. What had possessed him to say that anyway?

"I was only joking, I'm sorry," he said. "Anyway when Potter gets back you'll be able to complain to him about me—I'm too scared of him to be really mean to you."

"You –you really believe that we can get him back, don't you?" said Hermione. "I mean, Malfoy, he's _dead._" She burst into tears. The Muggle couple applauded.

"You were wasted as a corpse," said the man.

Draco glowered at them. "Don't interrupt, please, this is a very difficult bit to get right."

He wondered whether he should put his arm round the weeping girl or not. He tentatively reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped and slapped him. "You're insane and you're evil. You killed Harry, and you can kill me as well for all I care…"

The Muggles watched with bated breath.

"… and you know the worst bit?" Hermione continued. "Just for a second, I believed you. I actually believed there was some chance of getting Harry back to life… Malfoy, that was the cruellest thing you ever did. The cruellest thing you ever could do."

"You believed me," said Draco in excitement. "That proves it! He's trying to get through to you as well. Stop being so bloody rational for a second, Granger, think with your heart. You know as well, you know he's alive."

Hermione paused.

"I… I _do _feel that."

"You see?" said Draco. "You're supposed to help me!"

"But it's insane!" she said. "I've got to forget him, I should get on with my life…"

"No, no, you won't be _able_ to!" said Draco. "I tried it too…"

Hermione stared at him for a second, the suddenly relaxed, as if an inner struggle was over.

"It _is_ insane," she said. "But the insanity feels so much happier than the rationality… I'll follow you, what do we do now?"

The train was pulling to a halt at a very small ramshackle station. GLENBUNION said the sign.

Draco felt a sudden pull. 

"We get out here," he told Hermione, and together they lugged their luggage off the train, to the applause of the two Muggles.

# # # 

Author's note: Everything I write turns out stranger than I expected, and this is no exception. I'm uploading it to see what kind of reaction it gets—if you like it then I'll write the rest, and the flashbacks, and tidy this bit up a lot. Otherwise I won't bother, it promises to be long and a lot of work.

DISCLAIMER:

As you know I did not create these characters or Hogwarts or any of the rest of it. JK Rowling did.


	2. Default Chapter Title

_Hogwarts is in flames. Voldemort is dead, killed by Harry Potter. The army of Dark wizards which stormed Hogwarts, and broke down its magical defences, has been defeated. Teams of teachers and pupils are channelling water from the lake to quench the flames. Other people are scurrying among the wounded, magically healing them-- and tying them up to await justice if they are part of the Dark Side. Some of course are already dead or cannot be healed-- Lucius Malfoy has just expired from one of Harry's curses, despite the best efforts of Professor Sprout to revive him. Draco Malfoy also appears to be dead, but it is an illusion-- late in the battle Hermione set the Sleep of Death curse upon him, as he rushed to help his father attack Harry. He is safe: accounted for. He will be awoken for his trial. _

_Harry and Hermione are ignoring the bustle around them, locked in an embrace as both of them realise how close they came to losing each other. Happy to be alive, for a moment that lasts forever... _

_Suddenly Harry pushes Hermione violently to the ground. There is a bright flash of light from somewhere behind her-- Harry isn't there any more. Draco Malfoy is running away-- he Disapparates as Hermione screams._

# # # 

Draco strode ahead, not looking back to where Hermione followed panting, pulling her tartan suitcase-on-wheels. "What do we do now?" she asked him. 

Draco shrugged. "I'll tell you when I know," he said gruffly.

"When you know? How will you know?" said Hermione and stopped abruptly. They were walking along Glenbunion's main street, such as it was-- three pubs, a chemist, a small Spar supermarket with attached off-license and a New Age/hippy-type shop called Soul Searchers. Hermione had stopped to stare at the window of Soul Searchers. 

"What is it?" said Draco irritably, coming over to join her, looking at the grotty display of candles, Tarot cards and wind-chimes that lined the window. He couldn't work out what Hermione could see there that was so fascinating.

"Look!" Hermione pointed at a small sign sellotaped to the inside of the glass. 

TAROT READINGS. WEDNESDAYS AND FRIDAYS 2pm-5pm 

MADAME SYBIL TRELAWNEY. 

"I see," said Draco. "What day is it today?" 

"Friday," said Hermione. "And the time is...?" "Four fifteen." 

"Perfect," said Draco glumly. "Just absolutely perfect. Potter's got a talent for logistics-- Let's go and get our cards read, shall we?" 

They went inside-- it reeked of incense and patchouli oil. Draco wrinkled his nose. He looked round at Hermione to see her doing the same.

"We've come to see the Tarot reader," said Draco to the bespectacled, grey-ponytailed man behind he counter. 

"Both together?" said the man smiling at them. "It's thirty quid for a couples reading." He went over to a wooden, spiralling staircase at the back of the shop and shouted up it: "Madame Sybil! Love's young dream here to see you..."

Love's young dream exchanged disgusted glowers. "Ah, bless," said the man coming back to the counter. "You can't take your eyes off each other..." He eyed their luggage. "Looks like you've come a long way to see Madame Sybil... Are you here on honeymoon by any chance?" 

"NO!" snapped Hermione.

"Oops, looks like I touched a sore spot... Haven't you got him to pop the question yet? Never mind, I'm sure he soon will. Who could resist a lovely girl like yourself?...." 

The man kept on talking. Draco slapped the thirty pounds down on the counter and escaped upstairs.

Hermione followed dragging her feet.

### 

_Hermione._

_A clear shape in the mist that surrounds me. A real thing in this world of foggy fantasy. _

_So many times I've tried to touch you. To get you to look at me._

_Your mind is fenced around with spiky thorns, I can't break through._

_But I can hear you calling out for me all the time. I can taste the tears you're afraid to cry. _

_Please Hermione. See me. Know I'm there. Know I love you._

### 

Professor Trelawney looked the same as she always had, with the single addition of a ridiculous green headscarf. The light from several candles was glinting off her glasses. "Welcome," she said in a low mysterious voice. "I am Sybil Trelawney. Please sit down." 

They sat down in front of her black velvet-draped table. "You wished the Tarot?" she said. "You wish to know the future of love, of your relationship? The cards can supply answers, but only to those who are prepared to hear them. If you are ready, shuffle these now." 

She handed a well-worn pack of cards to Hermione. Hermione threw them on the floor. Professor Trelawney looked shocked but Hermione didn't give her the chance to speak. 

"Don't you know who we are, you old fraud?" she said. "You may be fooling the Muggles but you're not fooling us! What are you doing here?" 

Professor Trelawney looked at Hermione with dislike. "It seems to me that I do recognise you," she said. "Although you're chubbier than you used to be. Hermione Granger, the most promising pupil in years, so everyone said. They were laying bets on you to become the first female Minister of Magic, you know. And then you ran away. A Muggle secretary, that's what you became. A lonely, lowly little secretary who sleeps with her boss. People talked about it for a bit, but I wasn't surprised. I always knew you were Muggle in your head. I've already collected on the bets..." 

Hermione clenched her fists at her sides. "That's what I am," she said. "Except I don't sleep with my boss any more. But better that than what you are. A failed prophetess in a poky shop in a poky town who makes her living by defrauding dumb Muggles. What a fulfilling life you must be leading. " 

She rounded on Draco. "Typical. Just bloody typical. I haven't spoken to any wizard in two years and when I do they turn out to be the Mysterious Madame Trelawney and Draco Malfoy-- why the hell did you bring me here?" 

"_Draco Malfoy_?" shrieked Professor Trelawney, looking at Draco closely for the first time and, clutching her hand to her throat. "So you're not just a Muggle but a traitor, Miss Granger. Have you two come here to kill me? I did my bit in the fight against You-Know-Who, and I'm not ashamed of it. If you want to wreak vengeance on me then you can go ahead, you'll never bring the Dark Lord back..." 

Malfoy stepped forward and slapped Professor Trelawney's face. "You were getting hysterical," he said calmly to her. "No one wants to kill you." 

"Speak for yourself," Hermione muttered. "Well, in any case," continued Malfoy with a hint of a suppressed smile, "no-one's going to kill you. And no-one wants to bring the Dark Lord back."

Hermione looked at him in surprise. So did Professor Trelawney. He scowled. "I don't want to fight the Dark War again, of course I don't. My father died in it. My friends died in it." He glanced at Hermione. "Harry Potter died in it, and it's him we came here to see you about." 

"Harry Potter?" A strange, faraway expression passed across Professor Trelawney's face. Her voice became soft and dreamy. "Yes, of course. I knew that he was not at peace. So you have come here to save him." 

Abruptly she fixed her gaze on a spot just between Hermione and Malfoy. Hermione shivered._ Pull yourself together, girl, she's probably faking anyway_, advised Everybody's Mother. 

"Who is Dudley?" enquired Professor Trelawney.

"Dudley Dursley-- Harry's cousin," said Hermione. "They grew up together." 

"We must find him," said Professor Trelawney.

"WE?" shrieked Hermione and Malfoy in harmony. 

"Yes," said Professor Trelawney calmly. "It seems that I too am part of this quest. Do you know where to find this man?"

Malfoy was looking distinctly shifty. "Er-- I do," he said. "We used to work together. In London. But I'd prefer not to go to London-- it might be better to meet him somewhere else, a bit more out of the way., I can telephone to arrange something. " 

"What about his parent's house?" suggested Hermione. "It's in Little Whinging. In Surrey." She'd get to see where Harry grew up! 

"A long journey-- I suggest we start tomorrow morning," said Professor Trelawney. "I would offer you accommodation for the night, but I have no wish to be arrested for harbouring a fugitive. Besides which I am very sensitive to unpleasant psychic vibrations-- the presence of you two could render my house uninhabitable for a week. The Grand Hotel is just a little up the street. You can stay there." 

"Charming," muttered Hermione, and stalked huffily out with Malfoy. 

### 

_Malfoy._

_You're reaching towards me. _

_There's a hole inside you. Dark. Unfillable. _

_An abyss of guilt-- you're trying to touch me all the time. To be punished._

_You're frightened of me, Draco Malfoy. (Harry Potter who killed your father, Harry Potter who should have killed you.)_

_You think death is easier than life, but even death isn't going to fill up the hole inside you._

_I wish you no harm Malfoy, but it seems I can only touch you in your sore places._

_I can only touch you to hurt you, as your guilt sucks me in. _

_Please Malfoy. Stop hurting. See me. Forgive me. Let go of me._

### Draco looked uncomfortably at Hermione, sitting on the king-size bed of the hotel room. _Their_ hotel room-- that was what he was uncomfortable about. It had been necessary, but he didn't think that Hermione would see it that way, and as soon as he took the Silencing Spell off her he suspected he'd be in for some serious yelling. 

"I'm keeping the spell on you till after I've explained," said Draco sitting down beside her. "Listen, Hermione. The Ministry are after me. Well, you know that of course, but you didn't know they're on my tail. They nearly caught up with me a few days ago-- I had to get out of London in a hurry. That's why I booked a double room. Cover. They're looking for a man on his own. They know about the hair colour, they might even know about the glasses. But they don't know about you, you're the best disguise I've got. I'm not going to molest you or anything, you can sleep on the floor."

He muttered a small prayer to whatever gods looked after people like him, and waved the wand.

Hermione was still staring at him indignantly. "How can I possibly trust you?" she said. "You took my wand away from me, you went through my things, you put a Silencing Spell on me. You seem to think you can treat me however you please-- how can I believe you're going to keep your word?"

"Well I'm not going to touch you or anything," snapped Draco. "Honestly, Hermione, you're not remotely attractive to me any more." 

"Hah! Any more! You were never attractive to me EVER," said Hermione, somewhat childishly in Draco's opinion. 

"Well, that's sorted then," he said, feeling slightly chagrined that he'd lost that round. "I don't think we should hold conversations, we don't seem to be very good at them. I'll put the TV on." 

Business news was making the headlines again-- various Muggle experts were predicting that the speculative stockmarket boom couldn't last and a collapse in prices was due any day now. Draco tried to concentrate on it and to ignore the presence of Hermione who was sitting beside him on the king-size bed and staring into space. 

He wasn't very successful. Memories kept creeping back to him: the strange, twilight place he'd been when Hermione had put him into the Sleep of the Dead. He remembered knowing, even in that place, that his father had died. His whole body had seemed to shriek with rage, somehow it had given him the strength to come back, to break out of the Sleep, to avenge his father. Except sometimes-- sometimes he felt that he hadn't come back. Not fully. A part of him was still there, forever in the twilight. Life had been unreal since then, nothing seemed to matter that much. As if it was all a game, or a practical joke. 

He glanced at Hermione. She was real. His work in the City of London had put him in contact with many women who were far more conventionally attractive, blondes who were eager to date a rich-and reasonably-handsome young man. But they just seemed like part of the game. They certainly didn't care about him: how could they? They never got to know him. At least Hermione hated him for himself...

_And for Harry_. He had a sudden attack of dizziness, felt like he was falling a million miles. He watched himself, in slow motion, reaching towards Hermione, the alarm on her face being replaced with a sudden flash of understanding as he saw himself kiss her...

### 

_And, just for a moment, there's no fog any more. I'm in a room-- a hotel room. Blue paint on the walls. Grey deep pile carpet. And I'm sitting on a king-size bed, royal blue silk covering, and my fingertips are brushing the silk. And Hermione's sitting beside me. Her hair's all frizzing out around her head: it catches the fading sunlight like a halo. Her face is close to mine: she's got small freckles on her nose. Dark circles under her eyes, but they're the most beautiful eyes in the world._

_I kiss her. Of course. She's so beautiful I can't help it. And there should be music playing, but there isn't, so the scene fades out, to the sound of this heart that is not mine, thumping violently._

###

Malfoy pulled back from Hermione abruptly. He was pale, as startled-looking as she felt, and looked as if he was going to be sick. 

"That wasn't me," he said. 

"I know," said Hermione. "I could tell-- for a moment-- it was Harry..." 

"It was because of you," said Malfoy. "Being near you--- he took me over."

Hermione nodded dumbly. It had been Harry. She'd been absolutely certain of it, for that sweet, short moment. All the arguments which her rational mind tried to throw up couldn't withstand that certainty. But now Harry was gone, There was only a shaken Draco Malfoy sitting beside her. She couldn't help feeling sorry for him. And she could think of nothing to say to him. 

"Malfoy--" she reached towards him, to put her arm round his shoulders. He flinched away. "I think you'd better not touch me," he said. "I-- I'm afraid. It might..." 

_It might happen again_. He'd been going to say that. And Hermione wanted it to happen again. Wanted it, and was afraid it would. Could Harry take over Malfoy's body completely? Did she want that to happen? Surely Harry had more right to live than Malfoy did...

_Necromancy. You'd stoop to necromancy, now?_ asked Everybody's Mother in a tone of disgust. Hermione ignored her. She'd kissed Harry again. After six years. She'd touched him for one second, one eternity. She couldn't think of anything else. 

When she eventually slept, she had very strange dreams, which she didn't remember in the morning. 

###

Author's note: Aagh. It's got rather disturbing. The bits from Harry's PoV freaked me out slightlywhen I wrote them. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last time. It was _greatly_ appreciated. Don't think I'm greedy but I'd really like you all to review this one, please... I'm still worried it's too strange. And I'm afraid I had a bit of a sense of humour bypass while I wrote this... Tell me which bits you liked, which bits were too confusing, what you think might be going to happen next: anything! 


	3. Default Chapter Title

_a/n: if you've forgotten the plot, which I can't say I blame you for, it goes up to the point where Harry's spirit takes over Draco's body for an instant, and he kisses Hermione._  
  
*** aftershock ***  
  
Draco dry-retched over the bath most of that night, while Hermione slept peacefully in the bed. His head throbbed. Again and again he relived that moment when his body had been taken over. And he-- his mind, his soul (how burdensome it seemed to own a soul!) had been somewhere else. Wrapped in calm grey mist, quiet like cottonwool. A strange but soothing land.  
The land of the dead; and Harry wanted to come back from it: so much was obvious.  
And-- and (how long had he been running from this knowledge?) Draco wanted to go there.   
He'd tasted peace, once. On the battlefield, that fateful day at Hogwarts. Hermione had put the Sleep of Death curse on him. In the midst of the blood and turmoil he'd been lying peacefully asleep.  
He wanted to go there again. To be at peace. It was such a burden to be Draco Malfoy. To be the son of Lucius. To be the murderer of Harry Potter. The last of the Malfoys was nothing but a fugitive, a hunted animal. Had he ever been anything more? One thing was certain: Draco couldn't remember a time in his life when he had not been frightened.   
Even love is frightening: it contains the implicit threat of its withdrawal, he thought, not without wistfulness. He remembered the look on Hermione's face after the kiss. After she'd found Harry again. He knew that he would never dare to feel like that about anyone. Because bliss lives next door to agony, and Draco had no intention of hanging out in that kind of neighbourhood. Bliss was beyond him. But peace might be within his grasp... And perhaps he could do a good deed at the same time, perhaps the only good deed of his life.   
He drifted off to sleep, smiling.  
  
*** driven ***  
  
Draco's pale, resolute expression the next day was completely wasted on Hermione. He always looked pale anyway, and a resolute expression is very easy to mistake for a bad-tempered one. So they stood side by side in silence, waiting for Professor Trelawney to turn up.   
Which she did, with a bang. And a small smoke explosion. The battered green Mini pulled right up onto the kerb, forcing them both to jump backwards, and ran over Hermione's suitcase.  
Draco smiled, but not very well. Hermione was shaking with rage.  
"LOOK WHAT YOU DID!" she yelled. "THAT WAS MY BEST SUITCASE!"   
"Was" being the operative word. The three of them inspected the mangled debris: Draco took special note of the knickers that were now being blown everywhere by the wind (hmm, there goes a red pair) , before remembering he didn't care any more.  
"It was a mercy killing," said Professor Trelawney when she'd finished looking at the suitcase. "I've never seen a more unattractive shade of tartan in my life."  
"All my things were in it!" said Hermione furiously.  
"Material possessions are traps to keep our mind hooked to the Mundane," said Professor Trelawney serenely. "Now get in the car, my dear."  
Hermione did, with her fists clenched at her sides. Draco followed, sitting beside Professor Trelawney in the front seat. Sad as he was feeling, he couldn't help smiling a little bit at Hermione's expression.  
As they careened southwards down the motorway, it turned out that the earlier sample they'd had of Professor Trelawney's driving was fairly representative. Draco was sick of casting Memory charms on pursuing policemen and angry lorry drivers (though by rights the Mini's exhaust fumes should have acted like a James-Bond style smokescreen, allowing them to get away without magic.)  
Hermione was just sick-- she vomited all over the back seat during Professor Trelawney's on-motorway U-turn. ("But we'd missed the turning, my dears!")  
Professor Trelawney was angry about the stains on her upholstery, so a strained silence held sway, till a point some way south of the English border. As they passed into Yorkshire, Draco emerged from his hunched reverie.  
"Take the next turning," he said harshly. There was a startling urgency in his voice that made Professor Trelawney nearly hit another lorry.  
"Why?" she asked eventually, after a violent wrench at the steering wheel. "We're going to Surrey."  
"We're going to Malfoy Manor," said Draco.  
The two women both tried to speak at once.  
"Ssh," he said. "I know what I'm doing."  
"But Dudley--" said Professor Trelawney.  
"HANG DUDLEY!" shouted Draco.  
Professor Trelawney looked very startled, but gave in, possibly frightened by the realisation that she was trapped in a confined space with a wanted-by-the-Ministry madman. "Very well," she said coldly. "Malfoy Manor it is, then."  
They drove for a long time, on a thin road through barren moorland. Draco took over the wheel, he said the house wouldn't let anyone else drive up to it. No-one argued with him: the intense glitter in his eyes frightened even himself when he glimpsed it in the mirror. He was hunched over the wheel as if protecting something precious: his grip on it was white-knuckled even though they couldn't do much more than thirty miles an hour on this bumpy country lane.  
Home, he was thinking. The last time he'd ever see it...  
  
*** house of horrors? ***  
  
Malfoy Manor loomed in front of them like Dracula's castle. Lightning flashed and lit up the dark, gloomy house against the purple dusk, even though it was mid-afternoon.  
"Old show-off," muttered Draco affectionately. The door of the house swung open wide as he got out of the car. The women followed nervously: the Manor had clearly been empty for years, and it had an intimidating atmosphere.  
Bats fluttered startlingly from the rafters as they entered. Hermione and Professor Trelawney squeaked in high-pitched unison..   
"Sssh," said Draco. "You'll interfere with their navigation systems." He looked up at the bats-nest with a smile. "She did that on purpose," he added.  
"She?" Hermione stared wildly round.  
"The Manor," said Draco. "She's always fancied herself as a movie star." And without elaborating any further he turned and trudged up the stairs, which creaked ominously with his every footfall.   
Hermione's skin crawled: this place gave her the creeps. Everybody's Mother was scornful: _A few bats and a creaky staircase shouldn't frighten a five-year-old_. But she couldn't help it. She had a bad feeling: something wrong was going to happen here. Something very wrong.  
Draco knew right where he was going: as he made his way rapidly down one winding corridor after another dust flew up from his footprints.  
Hermione couldn't help wondering why the house was deserted.  
"What happened to the rest of the Malfoys?" she whispered to Trelawney.  
Draco heard. He spun around and glared fiercely at her.  
"My mother died, a few months after my father." Pain creased his face. "She just couldn't keep living without him."  
"I-I'm sorry," said Hermione inadequately.  
"Not your fault," said Draco shortly. Suddenly he looked angry again: he was obviously more comfortable with that than with the sadness, thought Hermione. "I couldn't even go to her funeral. That sneaking weasel Ron Weasley was waiting there in plainclothes to catch me." Ron worked for the Ministry now: Hermione had heard that he was obsessed with catching Malfoy and sending him to Azkaban.  
"I was on the run all the time" continued Draco. "I never even got to say goodbye to her..."  
He practically punched himself in his haste to wipe away the tear. "I'm the only Malfoy there is left. And now I'm going to let Potter finish his job."  
He opened a door on the left. "This is the second bedroom," he said, a note of grandeur entering his voice for an instant.  
The room was huge: dominated by a very big four-poster bed-- though the silk hangings had long since gone mouldy. At the end of the room opposite the bed a cast-iron fireplace had mouldings of gargoyles protruding disquietingly out of the wall. Draco went up to the nearest gargoyle, and pushed its nose.  
There was a screech, as of centuries-old hinges with terrible secrets to defend, nobly resisting to their last. Hermione jumped, startled, as the fireplace swung open, revealing a gaping black cupboard lined with shelves.  
"Father kept all the books he didn't want me to look at in here," said Draco. "He didn't know I knew about it: I used to sneak in here and read them when I was little."  
He stood on tiptoe to reach the top shelf. "I used to have to climb on the shelves to reach this one," he added absently, pulling down a book with a black furry cover. The book screamed loudly.   
"It's only me," whispered Draco, and the book purred instead.  
Hermione craned to read the words embossed on the cover.   
Necromancy for Neophytes and Masters: A Compendium for Every Occasion. By Edwitha the Extremely Evil.  
Hermione gulped. "Draco?" she said faintly. "Draco: I- I don't want to take part in some Dark Art ritual."  
"Ssssh," said Draco flicking frantically through the pages.  
Hermione looked at Professor Trelawney for support. The woman only shrugged.  
"There!" said Draco eventually, waving the book wildly in the air in triumph. "I got it, let's give Potter what he wants, shall we?"  
Hermione snatched the book out of his hands as he continued to wave it.  
Professor Trelawney moved closer, and read over her shoulder.  
Normally this would have irritated Hermione beyond measure, but not now. What she was reading left her too shocked, stunned, frightened, excited...  
_Excited?_demanded Everybody's Mother._You're excited? You can't want this. You can't possibly._  
Hermione wished that she could be so certain.  
  
*** An Extremely Evil Extract ***  
  
_Soul Revival.  
No, it's not a Muggle musical trend, it's a recipe for bringing the soul of a dead wizard into the body of a living person! This spell has been described as "difficult" by many experienced necromancers. But there are ways to make life easier for yourself. Here are Edwitha's Top Three tips for keeping it simple!  
1. Make sure someone the dead wizard loved or hated a great deal is close by when you're performing the rite. The pull of love will attract even a dead soul.  
2. Have a Seer with you, one who can see into the Land of the Dead and guide the soul towards its new body. Seers are pretty rare these days, but it's well worth the effort to find one!  
3. The best tip of all of course is to have a willing victim! If the person you're using actively wants to give up their body, then it doesn't just save all the usual business with tying them up and drugging them, but it makes the soul swap itself ever so much simpler. It can be difficult to find someone who's this much of a sap, but look around carefully. Are there any of your friends whom you suspect of being suicidal? Is there anyone you might be able to drive to that point?...._  
  
*** escapegoat ***  
Hermione stopped reading, and looked up into Draco's eyes.  
"You want to do this?" she said slowly. "You want to stop living...."  
Draco met her gaze squarely.  
"I don't want to," he said. "But I don't want to keep on living like this either."  
"Like what?" Professor Trelawney asked the question, but Draco looked at Hermione when he answered it.  
"Like a ghost, in limbo," he said. "Like a fugitive, and not just from the Ministry."  
He looked at Hermione pleadingly, begging her to understand.  
"Hermione-- the day I killed Potter? It should have been me who died."  
"How do you know?" said Professor Trelawney sharply.  
"The Sleep of the Dead," said Draco. "It's much harder to do that to someone than to kill them, specially in the heat of battle. Maybe Hermione thought she was being merciful, working that curse on me instead of killing me..."  
"I should have killed you," said Hermione softly. "I should have!"  
"Exactly," said Draco. "That's what I'm saying. I knew in the dead lands, that was where I belonged. I don't belong here any more. I've got nothing to live for. And Harry does-- I realised when he kissed you..." Draco touched his lips, he still had the memory of his mouth brushing Hermione's. He remembered how that had felt. For Harry.  
Not for him.  
"And Harry would still be alive, if I'd killed you," breathed Hermione.   
"Also true," admitted Draco. "And let's face it, he has more right to be alive than I have...  
"I agree with you," said Hermione slowly.  
"Then let's do it!" said Draco with a rush of excitement.   
Hermione looked at Professor Trelawney. "We need you. It said in the book."  
Professor Trelawney scanned Draco's face slowly, and then said in a tone of resignation: " Very well. I agree to help you."  
  
*** now we're cookin' with charcoal! *  
**"Wash the body you have chosen thoroughly under running water," read Hermione aloud.   
"I can do that myself," said Draco with manic excitement. "I'll go and take a shower, you two prepare the ingredients. We always used to do Dark Arts in the drawing room, everything you need should be under the floor, the dried stuff keeps for years..." He ran off, barely stopping to point the two of them towards the drawing room.  
Under the drawing room floor was a selection of bloodstained knives and a huge selection of magical ingredients.   
Professor Trelawney read out instructions from the book.  
"Draw a twelve-foot pentagram on the floor with bone charcoal-- Look what kind of pentagram is that? It looks like a three-year-old's drawing of a house. All you need to do is stick a little chimney on that side and...."  
Grumbling, Hermione drew the pentagram again.  
"Chop the smoked dragon heart lengthwise into fine strips and leave to marinate in an infusion of belladonna..."  
Professor Trelawney might have been going to criticise Hermione's chopping, but Hermione waved the knife at her so fiercely that she shut up.  
"Hop three times widdershins round the pentagram, while reciting 'She sell sea shells by the sea shore'"   
Hermione started to hop before she noticed the expression on Professor Trelawney's face.  
"I just wanted to see if you'd really do it."  
Hermione nearly went for the knife again. Instead she started a shrieking match which went on through the entire tiresome process of preparing the ingredients.   
It was a great relief when Draco walked through the door, freshly washed and almost glowing. He had chosen to put on white wizard robes which he must have found somewhere in the house. His blond hair was gleaming: he looked unexpectedly angelic. Hermione looked down at herself with the rusty, black-handled knife in her hands, and felt for the first time ever like a wicked witch.   
'Hope I'm not too late-- have I kept you waiting? said Draco with mad cheerfulness. "Hermione-- his grin relaxed into a real smile for a second-- you have charcoal on your nose."  
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" said Hermione glowering at Professor Trelawney, who was sniggering noiselessly. "We have to anoint you with Haitian fish oil, Draco." She snatched up a little green bottle and poured it all over his head.  
"Ugh," said Draco wrinkling his nose. "My hair is going to stink." He shrugged. "Oh well, soon that'll be Potter's problem, not mine-- what happens next?"  
"You have to stand in the centre of the pentagram," said Hermione gesturing.  
"You call that a pentagram?" said Draco looking at it.  
"Shut up and do it," said Hermione, relaxing into her wicked-witch role.   
Draco did.  
"Time to start the incantation then I guess, " said Hermione nervously.  
The room grew dark.  
"Malfoy Manor setting the stage for you," said Draco smiling. " She's such a drama queen. You wait, there'll be a crack of thunder along in a minute..."  
And as Hermione started to chant, the room grew darker still, and thunder was crackling in the black-clouded sky above the moors.  
  
# # #  
Author's note. Yeah, I know: the plot is nothing but loose ends. Hopefully I'll tie them all up in the next one. And I should have put more flashbacks, and more of the bits from Harry's PoV, and the Dudley subplot in here. As soon as I finish this damn story I'm going go back and write it all over again. Properly this time. Meanwhile, if anyone can find it in them to say anything nice about this rather horrible and disturbing story section I shall be very grateful. I mean, at least suicide stories are usually short. I just had to prolong the agony didn't I? But please review: reviews are the only things that might cure my writer's block (yes, I have writer's block:I know I've been posting odd bits but none of them are the story I actually want to write) Oh, and does anyone know: did I steal the metaphor "quiet like cottonwool" from some poem or other? I have a feeling I did...  
-- morrigan  


DISCLAIMER: Characters and universe JKR's. Disturbing twisted weirdness-- er, I guess that must be mine, then.  



	4. Default Chapter Title

*** a nude awakening *  
**  
Dudley Dursley was taking Prime Minister's Questions again. His witty repartee and dazzling irrelevance won standing ovations from both sides of the House every time.  
In summary, then, Madam Speaker, the Leader of the Opposition is a speccy little git! And he smells too.  
The applause was deafening. The dark-haired Leader of the Opposition was completely overwhelmed by the power of Dudley's argument. He melted into a sizzling puddle on the floor until only his clothes remained.  
Hey, that's _my_ Armani suit... Madam Speaker, I protest... WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!! Dudley' s confused mutter evolved into a startled yell as he was shaken awake from his dream.  
Two... men in skirts... were standing over him holding sticks.  
No-- I'm not THAT sort of an MP. Whoever sent you made a mistake... I'm not interested in that sort of thing at all... babbled Dudley in a panic, realising that they'd yanked the bedcovers off him and he was completely naked.  
The taller of the two men, probably in his mid-twenties and with a mop of flaming red hair, grimaced disgustedly.  
Wake UP, Dursley! he snapped.  
Dudley suddenly realised where he'd seen that face before. Sticking its tongue out from the back of a car... that was hovering in the air outside Harry's bedroom window.  
he moaned. He felt a desperate urge to pull the bedclothes over his head-- but they were on the floor. He had to settle for curling into a flabby ball and cupping his hands over his groin. Did Malfoy send you? Why? I haven't told anyone, I swear it...  
repeated the red-haired one in triumph. He turned to his companion. I knew he was behind this-- Harry always told me Dudley Dursley was an idiot. Even through his terror, Dudley felt a twinge of indignation at that. The red-haired man continued. And suddenly at twenty-seven they're tipping him to be the next Muggle Prime Minister? I knew there was magic at work there. And I knew it was Malfoy.  
The other wizard, a balding, dark haired man in his thirties, merely shrugged dourly.  
We've got Malfoy now! said the first wizard, almost dancing in triumph. He turned to Dudley. I'm taking you into protective custody under the Muggle Protection Act of 1993. And you're going to lead us _straight_ to Malfoy.  
Weasley, you're abusing the Act/. You deserve to be sacked./ said the other man. In upholding the law,/ one must treat it with awe,/ and this man's in no danger in fact.  
Oh yes he is, said Weasley grimly. He's in serious danger of being turned into a toad unless he does exactly as I say. He turned back to Dudley, who was almost crying in fear. The wizard pointed his wand at him. Get some clothes on. We're leaving now.  
Yes sir! Dudley scrambled out of bed and hastened to obey.   
Once the wizards had Dudley in the front seat of a sleek black car, Weasley seemed to relax a bit. He became almost chatty.  
You've been associating with a very dangerous man in Draco Malfoy, he said. What did he tell you? That he was going to make you Prime Minister?  
Dudley didn't see any point in denying it. he assented. His voice came out in a terrified squeak,not at all like the deep orator's voice he was becoming famous for.  
Weasley grinned unpleasantly at him. Nothing like being frightened to counteract the effects of a Charisma Charm. I'm guessing Malfoy renewed the Charm-- what, once every thirty days?  
Every forty five days, muttered Dudley.   
Weasley turned to his silent companion in the back. Malfoy's powers have increased since... since I last knew him, then.   
He's a dangerous man, who/ knows what he can do? /You might want to hit him,/ but you'll never outwit him/-- what pertains his plan to? said the dark-haired wizard.  
Not one of your better efforts, Vinegar, said Weasley critically. But it's a fair point, and one I was just about to make myself. To Dudley he said: What's Malfoy getting out of all this? Is he just doing it all out of the goodness of his heart?  
He said I was the best person to run the country, said Dudley.  
Weasley guffawed, and even Vinegar permitted himself a sour smile. Dudley was slightly offended by this, but continued regardless.  
Because I was brought up with a wizard.  
Both wizards swivelled to stare at him.  
What difference does that make? said Weasley slowly.  
So I'll be in a good position to tell people, said Dudley. You know, that wizards-- are there.  
He took advantage of the ensuing stunned silence to squeak with practised political smugness: Well, I think it's something people should know.  
  
*** mavericks and limericks *  
**  
Ron stared in horror at the plump blond idiot beside him. Why would Malfoy-- what did Malfoy-- he couldn't think of anything to say.  
Dursley sensed his advantage.  
Where are you taking me? he demanded.  
Little Whinging, replied Ron. We heard you arranging to meet Malfoy this evening. We've been-- piping your fellytone. He hesitated over that last bit. This Muggle jargon was so complicated.  
Ron saw Vinegar grinning in the driver's mirror. _Tapping_ the _telephone,/ _is how it's mostly known. /I know speaking Muggle for you/ is a struggle/ but your ignorance stands quite alone.  
Ron made a face at Vinegar's reflection. His real name was Vincent-- he had been nicknamed Vinegar after his usual sour expression. And Vinegar wasn't in a position to criticise _anyone_ for erratic speech patterns. But he didn't say anything. That would have been cruel.  
Dursley did, though. A bit slow on the uptake, that one.   
Why does that man keep talking in limericks? he said.  
Ron sighed. A terrible tragedy, that. There's this book-- _Sonnets of a Sorcerer--_  
Vinegar shuddered at its name, but took up the story nevertheless. Be wary of dark magic tomes,/ those wreckers of family homes. /My family took one look/ at that book /and we all started speaking in poems. And then my father died./ He committed suicide./ I got ridicule /all through school./ I swore I'd fight the Dark Side.  
He stopped speaking. Ron hastily dashed a tear from his eye. He knew what such eloquence must have cost Vinegar, who was normally a dour, silent man, uptight about expressing emotion.  
In their six years of working together, the two wizards had bonded almost as brothers. They were united by a mutual obsession. A mutual desire for revenge. Other law enforcement wizards had learned to walk warily around them.   
Ron thought he knew Vinegar better than anyone else in the world-- Vinegar had never married, had no wife to share his life with. He'd told Ron once, in a rare, drunken moment of self-pity, about the time he proposed to his girlfriend of seven years. He'd said to her: My darling, can we marry/, I would gladly with thee tarry/-- see, I bring /this diamond ring./ I wish your name was Carrie.  
She'd been so upset at the last line, ruining the romance of her big moment, that she'd not only said but had actually dumped the man.  
Ron sighed. Poor Vinegar. His scansion always collapsed when he was feeling nervous. But then he, Ronald Weasley, was perhaps scarcely less an object of pity. Obsessed with the desire to avenge his best friend of six years ago. His other best friend had disintegrated into a depressive, unrecognisable frump, a shadow of her former self. And he, who was variously known to his colleagues as and -- he suspected that he hadn't dealt with Harry's death much better than Hermione had.  
The Crystalvision window on the dashboard crackled, and the face of Ron's boss, the head of the Magical Apprehensions department, appeared on it. She looked excited and triumphant.  
Maverick, Limerick. Good news on Operation Black Cat. Traces of Memory Charms with Malfoy's magical signature have been found scattered all along the north of the M1. The trail leads to Malfoy Manor. Repeat. Malfoy Manor. Stand by to have your vehicle Apparated to Malfoy Manor.  
Ron felt triumph surge through his body. Malfoy was finally getting careless, it seemed. Perhaps his phone call to Dudley Dursley had been meant to throw them off the scent-- but it hadn't worked. They'd managed to track him down. Malfoy had killed Harry. In cold blood, after the battle was over, he had killed an unarmed man. And soon he would have to face justice. And Ronald Weasley. In reverse order. Perhaps after he'd got Malfoy, he'd find the peace of mind he'd been searching for, for so, so long.  
He braced himself for the jolt as the car landed with a bump, right outside the front door of Malfoy Manor.  
  
*** dead man talking *  
**_  
Ron.  
You're so angry with me, Ron.  
Why?  
I never wanted to die. You know that.  
But I had to.  
I killed Voldemort, I was killed myself.   
It had to be that way.  
You knew it, you can feel it.  
Balance. A life for a life.  
And you would rather it was your life, but you have living yet to do. Let me go.  
Ron, Hermione, Malfoy--  
Let me go.  
I'm so tired of wandering these grey spaces. Of being trapped between the living and the dead.  
Let me go. Stop calling me back. Please-- stop._  
  
*** tragic magic *  
  
**_Stop calling me back.  
_The drawing room in Malfoy Manor grew darker still. Hermione thought she could hear voices.   
Menacing presences flickered in and out of visibility, just at the edge of her vision. The whispers-- was it just the strange wind that seemed to have arisen in the room, that was making her flesh crawl. Or were there really voices there? There was a spot in the corner that seemed to be getting darker, that seemed to be sucking energy towards itself.   
_Stop calling me back.  
_Dead spirit live, come return to me. Take this body, life return to thee. Dead spirit live..  
She kept chanting, kept the rhythm going, tried to ignore the darkness, the whispering voices, her growing sensation of heavy dread.  
But there was one voice she couldn't ignore.  
_Stop calling me back.   
_It was Harry's voice. It was him. Didn't he want to come back to her?  
She tried to pause in her chanting, to think about that, but she couldn't. The insistent babble of voices around her was growing stronger all the time. The chant had taken on a momentum of its own, she couldn't stop. Her voice grew louder, deeper-- it wasn't like her own voice at all. The pool of darkness in the corner seemed to be growing more solid and colder.  
Hermione was shrieking the chant now. DEAD SPIRIT, LIVE! COME BACK TO ME. TAKE THIS BODY--  
And suddenly-- the air shifted. Something had happened. The dark shape in the corner fled, and some warmth returned to the room. Hermione collapsed panting on the carpet.  
She looked up at Malfoy's face and saw there a confirmation of what she already knew.  
It's worked! she gasped.  
Harry stepped forward and took her in his arms.  
  
* * *   
a/n. Sorry this is taking so long to write. I variously blame: my sadistic Muse, Dudley's uncooperative nature, (this part should really have been put in BEFORE the last one but it wouldn't gel,) and the fact that I just hate hurting Draco. (I doubt anyone will believe me, but it's true. In various fanfics I've tortured him, sent him to Azkaban, had him humiliated, beaten up, rejected in love and forced to kiss Goyle and now he's dead-- or is he? But I feel his pain!) I was going to have Ron and Vinegar interrupt before Hermione could finish the spell but it somehow didn't work out that way. Also, JIC anyone thinks what just happened with Harry and Draco is a Good Thing, it _isn't_. Be quite sure of that. And many many thanks to Blaise for beta reading.   
  
DISCLAIMER: Nearly everything here is JKR's. Vinegar's mine though (could he POSSIBLY belong to anyone else? I love to laugh at my characters when they're at their most angst-ridden) and I'm sort of fond of him. 


	5. Default Chapter Title

***touching scene * **  
  
I'm holding Hermione. It's -- it's-- I don't dare press too hard, in case she and this world dissolve again. Melting away from me. She's warm. I'm warm too, and I had forgotten how to feel sensations like that. She's trembling, crying. Warm flesh shaking under my hands, salt water trickling down her cheek.   
I move to kiss the tear away. Taste of salt, and the subtler taste of her skin. I press her harder against me, I know now she's not going to disappear.   
I'm alive. God help me, I'm alive, and in a body not my own. It moves, responds to my thought-- and you who cannot remember death cannot possibly appreciate this bliss: of having something HAPPEN when you ask it to. Of having a world, and things to touch in it, and a voice which others can hear. Of things having sharp edges, boundaries. Of having someone to hold. And I'm holding her closer. Malfoy's pale thin arms wrapped tight around her.   
There's more of her than there used to be, but that's not something to complain about. I'm mad for sensation. The desire to drink in as much life as I can is almost violent within me. Spying a black-handled Dark Magic knife over Hermione's shoulder, I feel an overwhelming urge to cut this pale skin on it, to listen to the screaming (Hallelujah!) chorus of nerve cells, to watch bright red fluid spilling onto this dusty old carpet. God. Oh God. This is so wrong. I shouldn't be here. I should be dead, still dead.   
And to silence that thought I crush Hermione closer to me, force my mouth down on hers and my hands are tearing at her clothes, and-- and. This is her fault. I nearly hate her for a second (the bitch) Because she's the one who   
called me back here. And I can't stay. I step suddenly back from her, it's like another death, to make that distance between us. To be on my own, in the middle of the floor that suddenly seems like a desert stretching round me. To have her look at me with-- what is that in her eyes? Is it fear, excitement? Does she hate me   
now?   
I know it doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter. I'm so alive I can't stand it. So alive I feel it's going to kill me. And the cruelty. Such cruelty, that I will have to lose this again. Hermione is a cruel, evil bitch. I can't stop the thought. My eyes stray to the knife again. And I begin to cry.   
  
*** the story of d'oh *   
  
**It was Harry. There might have been other thoughts swirling round the back of Hermione's mind, but that was the big one. HARRY. A thought in capital letters. None of the other ideas in her head were important. He was there, he was in Malfoy's body, Malfoy was dead but wellhedeserveditdidn'the-- that was a thought that came all at once in a chunk, with no cracks in it where Everybody's Mother could insert the crowbar of rationality, to let in some daylight and make her feel guilty. And Harry was holding her, ever closer, touching her, kissing her-- she thought she might be going to die of sheer joy, so she was glad of his sudden frenzy, at the feeling he was attacking her, that he was strong enough to contain this dizzying spiral of sensation and emotion that might otherwise break loose and consume the world...   
... and he stepped back.   
That wasn't how it was supposed to go.   
She'd wanted him back for so long. Harry. He'd make everything OK again. He'd kiss her better. Things had been so perfect when Harry was around. And when he came back, things would be perfect again.   
And now he was looking at her, through the cold grey eyes of the man who had killed him, and for a brief instant that pointed face wore an expression more malevolent than Malfoy himself had ever managed.   
And then he started to cry.   
Hermione was racked with horror. What had she done? Didn't Harry want to live again?   
"You shouldn't have done this, Hermione," said Harry. "We can't have the past back. We can't ever have the past back again." He was crying harder. "I can't be with you: this is wrong. You've called back the evil as well as the good" -- with a cold thrill of horror, Hermione remembered the dark shape that had fled from the room, only a few minutes before-- "and it's even worse now, stronger. Hermione, I gave up my life to defeat Voldemort..."   
"Oh my God," whispered Hermione.   
"You're still quick on the uptake, I see," Harry smiled at her. It was a little like his former smile. She noticed a cowlick at the back of the silver-blond head, like Harry had once had. She was in a bad dream. "You pulled me back into the world, but Voldemort came along with me. He's been working at all of you from the other side, making you bitter and resentful, making it very hard for you to let me go... he can even turn love to his own ends, if you let him..."   
"Was that him, then, who guided me and Draco to be on the train at the same time? Who guided us to Trelawney, who brought us to Malfoy Manor? Oh God, Harry, was that him? Draco thought it was you..."   
"Draco always hated me," said Harry. "He was much too ready to see me everywhere. Like you were, because you love me... Of course it was Voldemort. He's been using Draco for a long time, I think."   
There was a sudden shriek from the corner of the room. Harry and Hermione spun around defensively, Hermione raising the wand that as still clenched   
whiteknuckled in her hand, to see Professor Trelawney, whose presence in the room they had completely forgotten, sobbing and scratching at her face.   
"Fateful day! Accursed day! That I should live to be the instrument of the Dark Lord's return! That I should be the one to awaken the monster from his sleep!"   
She didn't predict this, then, thought Hermione, and was shocked at her own callousness. Blood flowed from the deep scratches on Trelawney's face, inflicted by her long purple fingernails.   
Trelawney ranted on.   
"Doom! Doom! I am an instrument of doom. I am accursed, the one who brings evil. A shadow has fallen on our world, can it never be vanquished? Alas for Sybil Trelawney! Alas for the world... "   
She lunged for the black-handled knife, upraised it dramatically. Hermione and Harry charged across to stop her but she was waving it around too dramatically for them to get close. With a sweeping gesture she knocked the wand from Hermione's hand.   
"I have been the means of Death returning to this land..."   
She lifted the knife high, and with a sudden, dramatic movement, she plunged it into her heart.   
It didn't quite kill her-- she stood there swaying, with the black handle protruding from her chest, for what seemed like a very long time.   
"That knife's got serious Dark Magic on it," said Hermione, her face pale. "There's no spell that can save her now, not after that thing's been inside her heart... It'sgoing to be a horrible way to die."   
Professor Trelawney was still swaying and staggering, in what was undoubtedly a less dramatic suicide than she'd been aiming for.   
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. Hermione set her jaw and nodded resolutely.   
Picking her wand off the floor she muttered "Pax Mortare, Trelawney."   
Professor Trelawney dropped gently to the floor, dead with a peaceful smile   
on her face.   
  
***shiny guilt buttons*   
**  
Draco was wandering the grey lands. But they weren't formless, peaceful, like he remembered them from before. True, he didn't feel any actual pain.   
But he felt restless, uneasy, guilty.   
Had he made a bad mistake? He'd only meant to make things alright again. To give Harry Potter back the life he'd taken away from him.   
Wasn't that true?   
He remembered something his father had told him about Dark Magic. "It begins in guilt, in that little black hole in the heart of the victim. And everyone has guilt, everyone has weakness. If you can find these feelings in someone, you have tremendous power over them."   
Huh. Guilt was the only emotion he'd been really aware of for a period of six years.   
Running away, sacrificing, atoning. Trying to make it up, trying to appease the spectres of Lucius Malfoy and Harry Potter that continually haunted him.   
Had someone been using Dark Magic on him?   
Who?   
And the answer ricocheted back from the blankness that surrounded him, before he could protect himself from it.   
You_-Know-_Who.   
And other thoughts crowded close on the heels of that one.   
Dudley Dursley.   
He'd been working with that stupid Muggle, in what he thought a brilliant plan for uniting the wizarding world against a common enemy-- faced with the Muggle threat, they'd soon forget their differences.   
And they could all stop hiding from the Muggles, like animals, in the little forgotten nooks and crannies of the world.. As if being a wizard was something to be ashamed of. They could unite, to rule the world as they were surely the only persons qualified to do. They'd be good for the Muggles as well, they could magically end the misery and injustice with which the Muggles surrounded themselves. The misery which they seemed wholly incompetent, or unwilling, to prevent themselves...   
That was his plan.   
His plan?   
Voldemort's plan, then. With a few sympathetic humanitarian touches to make it palatable to the not-entirely-evil mind of Draco Malfoy.   
He was thinking very clearly here, in the grey spaces without his body or hisemotions getting in the way.   
But the loudest thought in his head was this:   
D'OH!   
He'd really messed this one up. And now Harry was alive, and Voldemort was back, and The Dark War was going to happen all over again, and no one but Draco knew what Voldemort was planning and he was in limbo without a body or any way to stop it and he couldn't even feel upset about it, he only felt tired, and uneasy, and frustrated...   
He yearned frantically to have his life back again. He had to do something.   
  
a/n. Urrgh. Sorry so short, but I just couldn't hack it any more. That was   
horrible in places wasn't it? Specially the start. Three mad inner monologues and a suicide in one very short episode.Now you see why I've been putting off writing this story. It scares me. Having been dead seems to have a bizarre effect on Harry's personality: it would though wouldn't it? Oh well, review please. I don't like the places this story takes me to. I also don't like the fact that I have a different writing style in every episode. Should I just stop writing it and concentrate on something else? 


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